A Funny Kind Of Love
by Killerturtles
Summary: "Mike and Harvey never realized they had been doing the relationship thing right for years before they got it wrong." A character study.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: A Funny Kind of Love**

**Summary: "Mike and Harvey never realized they had been doing the relationship thing right for years before they got it wrong." A character study. **

**Warnings: Nothing to bad.**

**Rating: T (To give me wiggle room)**

**Characters/Parings: Harvey, Mike. Kind of Slash, but not really.**

**A/N: I'm not really too sure about this, but I was trying to compare their relationship to a romance novel ... anyway, read it, let me know how it turned out.**

**I'm not really sure what I'm going to do with this yet. **

Mike and Harvey. Associate. Boss. Friends? Co-workers. Smart. Lovers? Odd. Random. Confusing. Perfect?

Those words are all well and good, but relationship?

Who knows about relationship.

...

Every aspect of this crazy dance they've been doing these last few years was really just dating without the sex. (Don't mistake sex for passion.) It was a romance novel. Just one no could see; it was a relationship they never knew they were doing, until they did it wrong.

It was the perfect kind of relationship: the screwed up kind that leaves you crying. The kind that fills you up and makes you feel whole before you even notice that you're broken. The kind made with lies and desperate hopes. The rickety, rackety, roller coaster kind that steals your sense of gravity away from underneath you; the kind with all the best intentions paving their separate ways to hell. It was the kind of relationship that everyone knows is doomed; the one that radiated lust, secrets and adventure; and Donna was their sassy gay friend, watching it all fall apart.

...

Guess that makes Jessica the jealous best friend that screws everyone over. She is kind of a bitch, though.

...

They had the beginning down to an art form; all the major players were in place. The hopeless druggie in his world; the friendless Wall Street douche in his. It follows the script of a well-worn romance novel.

The best friend – Wall Street's only friend – pushes him out (for the necessary evils of interviewing Harvard window lickers) and he is miserable. Until his princess runs through the door, wearing skinny ties and a bad suit, late with a briefcase full of pot.

Wall Street doesn't blink. He doesn't care, he tells himself. But looking at that kid's young face, full of desperation, he does. He cares. And later, where he's arguing, so full of passion and Harvey can tell this is what he's meant to do, Harvey's eyes never leave Mike's face.

He hires him to win, fires him and then re-hires him. And once it's started, this relationship, neither can quite bring themselves to get off.

...

Love interest one drifts across; but it's too soon, and if Mike gets the girl, Mike and Harvey are gone. So she flits, this love interest, flits away, alluring him, tempting him, and always staying just within his sight.

And Mike realizes that he's have to lie and lie and lie and never stop lying. He's jumped on board a burning wreckage with an adventure junkie, and he thinks it may be safer just to swim ashore while it's still an option.

But Wall Street can't let his princess leave. He needs her and cares too much already.

So he begs, even if Mike never realizes it. And he fights off the dragon (Louis) for his princess, but he can't bring himself to tell her, because he knows Mike'll never stick around and he knows that if Mike knew he cared, it would all be over. The game would be up and nothing would ever work again.

Instead, he hug his princess close to his chest with paper work and cases and insults. Mike hardens, and what was once cruel becomes a playful banter they both need. They're working. Unbelievably.

...

But then there's Trevor, the bitch with a sob story. And fake love interest Jenny gets in the way, but that doesn't last too long.

...

Harvey, with all the possessiveness of an insecure lover tries to control Mike's life. (Trevor.) and gets pushed out of the way and things fall apart for a bit. Until Harvey forces himself right back into Mike's life with sheer will.

Afterwards, Mike makes a comment about caring, and Harvey cracks a joke.

They laugh, together.

...

Mikes tries doing himself over for Harvey; the dinner, the suits, Trevor. (But not the ties, and that's why they work so well together, and yet don't. Because Harvey doesn't compromise and Mike'll only bend so far. But for now, Harvey's okay ignoring his guilt, and Mike's okay with backbends.

Rachel almost screwed things up, again, like the cockblocking love interest that she is.

But Harvey said no, emulating the possessive lover again, and Mike dumps her, like the scared little princess praying for at least one more circuit on the roller coaster of crazy.

They both want this, even if they don't see it yet. It's in the desperate way they cling to each other (their jobs). It's in the nice kind of way they change each other, and in the sad kind of way that it's never enough; it's in the psycho kind of way that it actually works.

Their life is a rollercoaster, a wreckage, a pile of deep shit, a relationship. Most importantly, it's a love story that's never going to be acknowledged.

It's the best (worst) kind of love. It's the kind that has an expiration date, but without the cliché ending.

It's a romance novel: It works, even when it doesn't, and someone always dies. Boy meets girl, falls in love, dies.

Mike and Harvey. Harvey and Mike. Wall Street and druggie. Skinny ties and fancy suits. Associate and closer.

The inevitable crash will be beautiful.

...

**A/N: Okay, not exactly sure what to do with this. It was just meant to be a one shot studying their relationship, but I'm not sure what it is now. Why don't you tell me? In a review? Por favor? I speak Spanish ****for you. Ergo, you review. I'm shameless.**

**Anyway, tell me what you think! (Please?)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is only deceptively unrelated, and the entire fic is just going to be me trying out weird and vague writing styles. I've actually tried to match the Laughing / Crying paragraphs up. I'd appreciate some feedback on how that read. Please?**

* * *

_We laugh, and we cry, and there's not much worth living for in between._

* * *

Laughter

Laughing is much like crying. Mistaking one for the other is easy. Laughter is more of realizations, completion, wholeness, though, while crying is an act of failing apart. It is a release, desperation and relief, while laughter is just a physical manifestation of joy and disbelief. It is more fun to watch people cry.

…

Laughter. A child is alone a swing set. It's in one of those desert places; where the sun is always shining and nothing's alive for miles. It's a rough sort of swing set, one clearly made by hands who didn't quite know what they were doing but knew what they wanted, one that creaks and rocks in the (nonexistent) wind while the child swings. There is no house. Just a lonely swing set and a giggling child.

…

Laughter. A small smile. A little giggle. A twitch of the lips. A shout of joy. A reflection of all things pure, innocent, beautiful. A simple little need, a desperate call, a response. That giant balloon that fills up your chest and makes everything okay. A deep, loud, uncontrolled, unstoppable response to being so damn happy.

…

Laughter. Smiles. Wine. Sex. Love. Lust. And each time this tried and true method succeeds, we rejoice, ignoring all the times it hasn't and all the times it won't and all the ways it'll fail and all those people that are always forgotten.

…

Laughter. Quiet, loud, shy, boisterous, fake, real. It's a party. A woman is sitting in the corner. She is alone. She is watching the clock tick down. And when the building ignites and explodes, within that awful , cold ringing silence that always comes before the screaming and the running and the bleeding and the saving and the dying, right before all that, there is a laugh. It's a dead, bitter, free laugh coming from the woman who had nothing left to lose but lost it anyway.

…

Laughter. The last time, it's just a rural town. But no one laughs, this time. No one is alive to hear. No one cries either. There is no ringing silence, no screaming, no running, no rescuing, no dying. There is just dead silence, and nothing. Just nothing. Nothing ever again.

…

Laughing, the little girl on her swing smiles at here invisible audience, and winks.

…

Laughter. How can people laugh, when people die? As animals go extinct? If we are human, how can we laugh while so many people are alone, dying, in pain beyond measure? The answer lies in the question, I believe. We are human: unable to look past ourselves, having to strain to view but a forty-second of the big question. So, with hard irony, we literally laugh at death. Because the last time anyone tried to understand, there was a serpent, an apple, and sin.

Crying

I can understand the common delusion of laughter being similar to crying. When you laugh, though, it's almost as if you are fighting yourself. People are drawn to misery, which is why laughter is a fight, while tears surrender. Tears leave marks; laughter doesn't. Tears are almost impossible to fake; laughter isn't. Everyone wants to laugh, but no ever wants to cry.

…

I swore I'd never cry. Daddy always said big boys didn't cry. And don't kids just want to please their parents?

…

I turn. I blink. I watch, I wonder, I smile, I shudder. I gasp, I surrender. I breathe. I look, I glance, I see, I hear. Moments tick by. Seconds vanish. Life goes on. I am still. I sit, I stand, I pray. I hope, I die. I love, I live, and now, I cry.

…

I feel cold wetness tumbling down my cheeks. It does taste salty. The books are right. I know this, cause I haven't been able to stop yet, and the only thing I can taste is salt. It's cold, and it hurts, and I can't stop. I can't stop, and they keep coming and rolling down that knot in my throat as the salt lingers and burns. I wonder how long human bodies can shake like this, and think death is looking pretty damn nice right now. I never knew how hard it was to cry.

…

I pause. My emotions are running at a constant high; have been, ever since the flight. I am watching, waiting to see my greatest achievement come to light. But for now, I must lean against this nondescript concrete wall, and relax. I glace at my phone. It rings. Twice. My hands tremble as they move to my pocket. I cannot control the utter joy that radiates through my body, and a single tear of maniacal joy wiggles down the left side of my face. It is exhilarating. I am laughing when the bomb tears my body apart.

…

I shake. Badly. Back and forth, my whole body trembling worse that one of those helicopter leaves all the kids like to play with. I don't even feel pain, or notice my ragged breathing. My words are rushed, sharp, cruel, and unreal. I almost break my headband. I hadn't even noticed I'd taken it off., or that I'd been playing with it. Everything is strung out like clothes on a clothes line, and I'm scared that if I breath the wind will knock them all the way to the ground. And then, I hear the news, see the lights, cry. And those clothes slam to the ground, soaked.

…

I'm watching the television. I don't do that often. There's a story going, and I'm not paying much attention. But I get the gist of it: an Olympic gold medalist's brother had just exploded himself and half of Death Valley. Whatever. I don't cry. I don't care. I turn the channel to some reality show, before giving up and going into the kitchen to grab an apple. But I change my mind, because it is sixty carbs, and decide on half a cup of blue berries after I finish my workout.

…

I know there are many reasons to cry. Like, sadness. Or any emotion, I suppose. But tears are different from the other stuff. When you blush, it's always gonna be embarrassment. When you laugh, it's gonna be humor. But when you cry, that's when you break down. You're not fighting anymore. It can be a surrender, a goodbye, a hope. It can an expression of pain or a desperate act of hopelessness. It can be a victory or a joy. It's when you're so overcome with emotion that you just, you cry. And crying is beautiful. To watch someone crumble, to show their inner self, to watch their walls crash and burn, to release all that emotion. It's the explosion of love, hate, trust, pain, and sadness that is beautiful.

* * *

_But I think, truly, I'd rather watch someone laugh._

_It's easier._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm exactly sure where this is going, but I'm trying to just go with it, because I'm having a lot of fun.**

* * *

It went without saying that the universe was strange. Like really weird. It also went without saying that anyone who tried to comprehend it had their head explode.

That, however, is irrelevant.

Relevance, in and of itself, is a very particular kind of irreverence and often quite dull.

In fact, anyone looking to read anything that a) has any sort of relevance, or b) makes any sort of sense should just give up now.

Reality doesn't make sense. Why should fiction?

…

Harvey hated Louis. Louis hated Mike. Mike hero worshiped Harvey. Harvey bowed to Jessica. Jessica dissed Louis. Louis hated Harvey. Harvey hired Mike. Mike hated Louis.

They all played around in their respective roles, putting on a show for the universe, and then they all died.

The universe is fucked up like that.

…

Learning to laugh at yourself is one of the only things worth learning.

It's also one of the things few people bother with. It's because people can't really get past death. They can't see the point, the truth, and they can't bear to find out.

Fear is fucked up like that.

…

Mike never wanted to be religious. He never knew Harvey was.

And now, here he was, trapped in a perpetual state of shock.

For once, he was not the actor in a screwed up tale, but an audience member reeling from the sucker punch.

Life is fucked up like that.

…

People lie to themselves because it's easy. Belief's are all lies, but they're all anyone has.

Who says the sky is blue?

But there's no coming back from a question like that. It's an unspoken rule: You don't question reality, you don't dream past the sky, and you can't be good and happy.

If you want to be the same, cry.

It you want to be different, laugh.

…

Donna hated Harvey, sometimes, and loved him the other ninety-two percent.

It was one of the few things Donna couldn't explain.

Emotions are fucked up like that.

…

It's amazing that humans who are alive for such a short period of time can feel so much, so deeply.

And so selfishly.

But powerlessly. Powerlessly selfish. Hopeless.

The human race is hopeless, and it doesn't matter what you do, because within your small circle, it will only matter to you and select few. It doesn't matter what you do, because it will have all been for you, in a roundabout way. It doesn't matter what you do, because soon, you'll stop existing, and the universe won't. And it will just keep going on and never stop.

In the grand scheme of things, you won't matter at all. You won't matter, you won't be remembered, you'll always just be another person of six hundred billion clones.

Maybe you won't even be birth.

* * *

**A/N: this feels unfinished, but let me know what you think anyway!**


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